You smirked. “Did I?”
“Stay out of my room,” I said, squaring my shoulders and fighting to make my voice strong.
“It’s my house.”
“It’s your dad’s house, not yours.”
You leaned close enough so I could smell your peanut butter breath. “You and your mother should leave,” you said, and left the room without a look back. I didn’t go upstairs for a long time and when I did, I ran past your room, even though your door was closed.
* * *
I padded downstairs to get a drink and paused on the bottom step when I heard our parents talking with hushed voices.
“Thom, I really think you should talk to her, try to bring her out of her shell.”
“She’s a quiet kid. She’s always been that way.”
“I know, but sometimes I feel like there are only three people who live in this house, not four, and that isn’t right. Even when she’s with us, it’s like she isn’t. Have you considered that she might need to talk to someone else, someone professional?”
“She doesn’t need that, Grace. She needs time, that’s all. She’ll come around, I know she will.”
“But—”
“She’s fine. Look, I know you’re concerned, but I know my kid. It takes her a long time to get used to change.”
“I just feel like—”
“Just give her time. Trust me, it’s the best thing we can do.”
I snuck back to my room before I got caught eavesdropping. So my mom, too, knew something wasn’t right, but I was still afraid to talk to her. It’s not like she was going to pack up and leave. She sold our house; we had no place else to go.
* * *
I woke in a room still swathed in shadows. I blinked in the darkness, saw movement beside my bed, and there you were, bending forward.
“What are you doing?” I said.
You froze in place, one finger held to your lips. I must’ve fallen back to sleep because the next thing I knew it was morning. I stormed down the hallway, my hands curled into fists to keep them from shaking, and knocked on your bedroom door.
“I told you to stay out of my room,” I said, when you peeked through a four-inch gap.
“I wasn’t in your room.”
“Yes, you were. I saw you last night.”
“Maybe you were dreaming,” you said as you shut the door.
“Stay out or I’m telling your dad,” I called out, my voice a little kid whine, but what else was I supposed to say? I didn’t know what you were doing, but I knew it wasn’t a dream.
My soccer ball was exactly where I’d left it; my sheets were clean. Nothing was missing, at least not that I could tell. My legs were sore, the way they were after I went swimming, and my bathing suit, draped over the arm of my sofa, felt damp, too. I ran my fingers over the straps with my lower lip pinched between my teeth. I hadn’t been in the pool in days, and I would never ever put wet clothes on the sofa.
That night, I locked my door and propped my desk chair beneath the doorknob and breathed a sigh of relief to find it still locked and barred in the morning.
* * *
Every night my mom set the table for four, but you only joined us half the time. I guess my mom had given up trying to convince your dad because she never seemed surprised either way. When you weren’t there, she made a plate for you, wrapped it in plastic, and left it in the fridge, but the plates always went untouched and she eventually stopped.
I liked it better when you weren’t there. When you were, I tried to pretend that everything was fine, but I swear you watched me the whole time. I didn’t understand how your dad couldn’t see that there was something wrong with you. I guess parents never want to think that way about their kids.
One night, your dad had to work late and when my mom and I sat down at the table, I toyed with my fork and took a deep breath.
“Mom? Something weird has been—”
“Are those stuffed shells? I love stuffed shells,” you said from behind me.
“It is,” my mom said, and her face lit up Christmas tree bright. She got up to fix a plate for you and you slid in your seat and blinked slowly, your eyes all innocent and sweet. Your smile might have looked real, but I knew it wasn’t. My mom bought it, though, and I knew then that I couldn’t say anything. You wouldn’t let me.
* * *
I guess I forgot to lock my bedroom door, because I woke up with you in my room again, halfway to my bed. I sat up, the sheets pooled around my waist. “Get out of my room,” I said.
You inched closer. “Do you think they’d like me more if I was like you?” you said.
“What?”
“You’re the ash-girl turned princess and I’m the ugly one who cut off her toes and still can’t fit the shoes,” you said.
“What are you talking about? You’re not making any sense.”
You laughed, but the sound wasn’t happy and it prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. Once you were gone, I turned the lock, but I couldn’t fall back to sleep, not for a long time.
* * *
Me, your dad, and my mom were watching Star Wars in the family room, and my mom sat in the middle with a huge bowl of popcorn on her lap. Halfway through the movie, your dad grabbed the remote, hit pause, and said, “We should go camping next weekend.”
My mom laughed. “Where did that come from?”
“I have no idea, but doesn’t it sound like a good idea? What do you think, Courtney?”
“Sure,” I said. “I haven’t been camping in a long time, not since I was little.”
“We can go to Cunningham Falls State Park. Sleep in tents, roast marshmallows, hike the trails,” your dad said. “Not sure if any of my old gear is any good, but we can buy new stuff if we need to.”
“I think that sounds awesome,” I said. I meant it, too. “Want me to tell Alyssa?” I didn’t want to, not really, but it seemed like the kind of thing I should say.
Your dad blinked and my mom shook her head a little, not in a yes or a no but in the way people did when they were surprised. Then your dad said, “I will. I’ll ask her.”
When he came back downstairs, his face was drawn. “She doesn’t want to go.”
I tipped my chin down to hide my disappointment. Of course you didn’t want to. You weren’t happy and you didn’t want us to be happy either.
“But you know,” he said, “she’s old enough to stay home by herself, so we can still go.”
“Really?” I said.
He looked at my mom and after she nodded, he said, “Yes, really.”
* * *
In the months that followed, the three of us went camping a bunch of times. We also went to the movies, to play miniature golf, and bowling. Sometimes when I forgot to lock my bedroom door, I woke up in the morning tired, my hair smelling of chlorine or my feet dirty, but I never said anything. If I did, then you’d know your tricks were working. You were just mad because we were out having fun while you stayed home.
The picture of you and your mom and dad at the beach disappeared from the living room. I found broken glass and part of the frame in the kitchen trash can and waited for your dad to notice, but he never did.
* * *
In the middle of the night, I woke with you atop me, your body fitted against mine, limb to limb. I was too startled to say anything, to shout, and then you pressed down, impossibly heavy. I inhaled your exhalation, tasted your breath, felt the fine hairs on your skin brush against mine, felt your heat in the delicate cleft between my thighs, absorbed the dampness of your sweat through my pores. As I drew in a breath to scream, you said, “Mine.” I choked on the word and everything went hazy. I felt you fall inside me, through my skin and into my bones. I sat up, running my hands over my arms and legs, breathing hard, my body strangely heavy, though unchanged on the outside. I could still taste you in my mouth—meat and anticipation and need and rage—and my thighs quivered with an unresolved ache.
A dream, it had to be a dream, I told myself. You were
in your room, sleeping. All I had to do was creep down the hall and check, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
I stared at the ceiling until sunlight crept into my room and when I got out of bed, I fell to my knees. I used the edge of my mattress to pull myself up and hobbled across the room, my back bent, every step quicksand slow. My mouth was dry, my hands trembling. It was Sunday and I didn’t have to worry about school, so I paced in my room until I grew accustomed to the new weight in my spine, refusing to think about what had happened, refusing to think it was anything other than a dream and that I must’ve slept wrong or tossed and turned so much.
When I heard our parents go downstairs, I slipped down the hallway and stood outside your closed door. I lifted my hand to knock, but let it drop instead. I didn’t know what I was more afraid of—seeing you there or not seeing you at all.
The smell of bacon wafted up the stairs and I waited by your door, leaning as close as I dared and hearing nothing, but you never came out and in the kitchen, there were only three place settings on the table. I sat with my shoulders hunched and didn’t say anything to our parents about my dream or the plates or you.
After breakfast, I tucked my soccer ball under my arm and went out back. My kicks were awkward and half the time, my foot missed the ball. My arms didn’t want to move the right way when I ran, either. Your dad came outside and when I waved, he said, “Are you okay? You seem a little off your game today.”
“I know. I don’t feel so hot.” I patted my stomach so he’d assume it was a period thing and not the flu.
Cheeks flushed, he said, “Maybe you should come inside and rest, instead of playing.”
“Yeah, I’ll come in in a little while.”
But I stayed outside, kicking and re-kicking the ball, getting angrier and angrier with each fumbling arc of my foot, each miss.
* * *
Now there were only three of us in the wedding photo over the fireplace. Our arms were still linked, but in the space where you should have been was only background. I touched the picture with one trembling finger, half-expecting it to disintegrate or burst into flame or change back to right. My mom’s footfalls clicked in the foyer and I called her in.
“What, honey?”
“Look at this.”
She smiled, steepling her fingers to her chin. “That was such a wonderful day.”
“Right, but don’t you see something wrong with the picture?”
“No.” She stepped a little closer. “Should I?”
“Don’t we look … off center to you?”
“Now that you mention it, yes, we do. Funny how I never noticed it before.” Her brow creased and for a moment I thought for sure she knew exactly what was wrong. Your name danced across my lips and I held my breath.
Then she smiled. “I’ll have to take it and get it reframed at some point. Come on, want to help me get dinner ready? I’m making your favorite—stuffed shells.”
I froze, unable to blink or breathe. “Sure,” I finally said, my mouth sandpaper rough, and glanced over my shoulder as I followed her out of the room.
Without thinking, I pulled four dinner plates from the cabinet, but before my mom could notice, I put one back.
* * *
Your dad rapped on my doorframe with his knuckles. “Want to watch a movie with us?”
“No, that’s okay. I have to finish this.” I lifted my notebook, hoping he wouldn’t look too closely at the blank page.
“You sure? It has that actor you like, the one who played Loki.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Are you okay, kiddo? You’ve seemed distracted lately.”
“I’m fine,” I said, putting a smile on my face. “Just busy with school. It’s like all the teachers have decided to give us extra work to do right now.”
He ran his thumb along the hinge. “You know, you can tell me if something’s bothering you. You can talk to me about anything at all.”
“I know. Thank you.” I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat.
When he stepped out of view, I tiptoed across the room and peered into the hallway. He paused by your door and cocked his head with his hands in his pockets, but after a moment, he headed for the stairs. I sat on my bed with my arms wrapped around myself and whispered your name, but you didn’t answer.
* * *
I waited until our parents went out to dinner one night and took the front stairs to the second floor. My mouth was dry and a cold snake slithered from between my shoulder blades down to my tailbone, but I opened your bedroom door without knocking. The bookcases and pale grey walls were still there, but the shelves were empty and the only thing hanging from the bar in the closet was a square of cedar.
I checked beneath the bed, underneath the pillows, behind the curtains, in every drawer of the desk, but there was no indication you’d ever been here at all. I stood with my back against the wall, breathing hard. “This isn’t right,” I said, one hand to my chest. “This isn’t possible.”
I dragged the desk chair over to the closet and in the back corner of the top shelf, I found a folded photograph—you and your mom and your dad at the beach. The missing picture from the living room. I hissed in a breath. Here, then, proof that you were real. I stood on the chair for a long time, turning the picture over and over in my hand.
* * *
Every morning, I check my feet for unexplained dirt and flex my muscles for unexpected stiffness. I tell myself I’m okay—I want to be okay—but I still can’t hit the soccer ball well and when I swim, my arms and legs can’t find the proper rhythm. I’m mostly afraid of the changes I don’t know about yet.
And what if I never know until it’s too late? Maybe you’re changing me a little more every day, and I’ll wake up one morning and feel your shape beneath my clothing, taste your words on my tongue, and hear your voice in my ears. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?
I don’t know how you did it or why or what you thought would happen. Maybe you figured you could take my place and somehow got stuck. Maybe you wanted to disappear and be forgotten. Maybe you were angry and wanted to scare me.
Well that part worked so you can come back now, okay? You can come out.
Our parents remember that they’ve forgotten something. Now and then, your dad stands in the doorway of your bedroom, hands in pockets, eyes serious, shoulders slumped. My mom never got the wedding portrait reframed and sometimes she stands in front of it, her forehead creased and her mouth pursed. I can almost understand her forgetting—she wasn’t used to two kids around and you were always in your room—but your own dad? I think you made them forget you. I wish you’d made me forget you, too.
At night I take out the photograph I have hidden under my mattress and tell you I’m going to show it to our parents and tell them what you did. I’ll make them remember you, and then you won’t be able to hide inside me anymore. Then you’ll have to come back out.
But I’m scared they won’t believe me. I’m scared you’re never going to leave. And I know you know it, too. I feel it in my bones.
On the Other Side of the Door, Everything Changes
Hannah opens her bedroom window, wincing at the low creak, and pauses with one leg over the sill. A pile of dirty laundry sits on the floor by the foot of her bed, One Direction posters hang on the walls, and her laptop is open, but turned off, on her desk. She hasn’t dared turn it on for days; the messages coming in on her phone are more than enough.
Dark smudges, the shadows of her mom’s feet, creep along the floor beneath the door. They linger, and Hannah pulls her leg back inside, careful not to make a sound, worrying an already ragged cuticle between her teeth. Part of her wants to open the door and let her mom in, wants to let the truth spill from her lips like vomit, wants to tell her everything, no matter what she says, no matter what happens after, but she can’t make her feet or mouth move because the other part of her knows it’s too late.
Her phone vibrates and tears burn in her eyes. The monsters
are relentless. No need to look at the message; she knows what it says. She deleted them when it started, but now she doesn’t even bother. Her phone vibrates again and she pinches the inside of her cheek between her teeth. It’s Friday night, almost ten o’clock. Weekends are the worst.
The shadow feet beneath her door move, pause, and move again, this time moving away. Hannah takes a deep breath, shoves her phone in the pocket of her hoodie, and gives her room one last look.
* * *
Leanne paces in the living room in the open space between the television and the coffee table, fingertips to temple, as though she can hold back the ache nestling there. Hannah’s upstairs in her bedroom, and while Leanne wants to go and apologize, she knows her daughter well enough to know it would go over as well as a fart in church. They both need time to cool down. To breathe.
This isn’t the first time they’ve argued—life with a thirteen-year-old is anything but idyllic—but it’s the worst thus far. And prompted by such a silly thing, too. Leanne squeezes her hands into fists, releases, squeezes again. Walks another series of footprints into the nap of the carpet.
Would you please empty the dishwasher? A simple request that tornadoed into tears, stomping feet, and the slinging of silverware into the drawer so fast and hard the clatter rattled Leanne’s teeth.
“What is wrong with you?” Leanne asked, knowing her tone of voice was too sharp, but unable to catch it quick enough.
Hannah turned with a fistful of spoons, eyes pinched. “Nothing’s wrong with me.”
Leanne kept her tone gentle. “You’ve been quiet for days. You haven’t been hanging out with your friends or doing much of anything other than staying in your room. Is everything okay? Did something happen?”
Hannah shrugged one shoulder.
“You know you can talk to me if you want, right? About anything at all.”
Another shrug, then Hannah crossed her arms over her chest and said, “I’m not hanging out with my friends because they’ve been calling me names.”
And Leanne laughed. It wasn’t that she found it funny—and it was more a snicker than an actual laugh—but Hannah’s response was unexpected and petulant, the words something out of grade school. Leanne bit back the sound a moment too late, and Hannah exploded. F5. She threw the spoons across the counter, her mouth twisted, her face blotched bright red, and she yelled, “I knew you wouldn’t understand. You’re too old.”
Cry Your Way Home Page 3
